The Silent Conversation, page 23
He folded his arms and slumped slightly in the seat. ‘She didn’t know it was me she had accused of punching Rachel. We had a conversation on the intercom. I said I wanted to talk to her, told her DCI Anderson had sent me out, showed her my warrant card. She let me in.’
‘How was the conversation after you had gained entry under false pretences?’
‘She was OK. I explained that I didn’t hurt Rachel, that I wasn’t sure what she saw. She saw me pulling my arm back and up. Carol demonstrated it and I realized that was when I snatched Rachel’s car keys from her. Rachel was intoxicated and she was determined to get in the car and drive. I am a police officer, you know.’
Costello shook her head and closed her notebook.
‘And what happened when you left?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Why did you attack her?’
Martin leaned forward, his eyes screwed up in disbelief. ‘I didn’t.’
‘She’s in hospital with a nasty head wound and your DNA was in her flat, so we now need to move this on to a more official footing, I’m sure you understand.’
‘I didn’t touch her.’
‘Don’t believe you. What have you done with Rachel’s laptop?’
‘I don’t know anything about her laptop.’
‘Her phone?’
‘I don’t know anything.’
‘OK, you keep lying. We’ll need to escalate this. If you think I’m bad, wait until you meet the woman at Complaints. She’ll have your testicles for earrings, mate.’
‘Hi. How did it go with Callaghan?’
‘I don’t think he can open his mouth without lying about something. What are you doing?’ Costello looked at the pile of files on top of Anderson’s normally clear desk. There was a mountain of them, two dusty boxes and a small pile on the floor that had toppled over to spread like a fan.
Costello plonked her handbag on his desk and knelt down to pick them up, her knees cracking loudly. ‘What are you looking for?’
‘Oh, something that’s not here. Something has been misfiled. A statement by a Mr Knight. With a K. You know, a guy on a horse, like Parryman said.’ The significance just dawned on him.
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Costello. ‘Has the heat got to you?’ She looked at the pile and then at her watch. ‘Tell me what it is you are looking for and I’ll give you a hand.’
‘No point, Costello. Brenda and Claire are going to some do tonight at the Botanics, and I promised I’d be home to watch Moses.’
‘So what? You’ve made promises like that all your professional life and never made it home. Come on, I’ll go to the machine and get a couple of sandwiches and we can get stuck in.’
‘No, Costello, I’m going home. I got the ID of three of our likely lads, so if you want to make something of that, fill your boots. Details are on the desk.’
‘But what are you looking for?’
‘A statement from Mr Knight. It could be important.’
Costello pursed her lips slightly; he could see her mind working, trying to come up with the argument that would make him stay. She knew him well enough to get it right first time.
‘So what is it you are looking for? Something to do with Johnny or something to do with Danny. It’s Danny, isn’t it?’
‘Something Natalie’s neighbour said, and McIntosh confirmed, about a witness statement that was made to the police the day of the accident. I can’t find it here; I can’t find it in the log. Somebody, nearly, very nearly, was an eyewitness.’
‘You can’t nearly be an eyewitness. You either see it or you don’t.’
‘Thick forest, early morning, bad visibility. He heard it rather than saw it.’
‘So interview him again.’
‘He was buried thirteen months ago.’
‘OK, so get Una Parryman to interview him, then. You need to think outside the box.’
Costello watched the door close and let out a long sigh. Everybody had gone home, except maybe Wyngate whose car was still in the car park, but it wouldn’t be the first time that somebody had dropped him off back at his house on a day when he had driven to work.
She dug through her handbag, looking for something to eat, wishing she’d stopped at the deli for a nice sandwich to keep her going, but she was keen to get out of Ruby’s company. The atmosphere in the car had been tense on the drive back. She could always go home, of course. To do what? Sit in silence, looking at the world outside her window? Thinking about the date? She hated thinking about the shitshow her life had been at points, but sometimes it came up and hit her. The date. End of June. This year would be a terrible anniversary.
She dug around until she found a Twix with an ice-cream wrapper stuck to it. Maisy Daisy. Unwrapping the Twix, she walked over to the wall, locating the photo with the ice-cream van, the logo obvious now she recognized it.
Johnny wasn’t allowed ice cream. That was part of his regime. Johnny was up to his old tricks, hiding as well as eating stuff he shouldn’t. What did that mean for a four-year-old boy?
She looked at the wall, holding the Maisy Daisy wrapper in one hand, a cup of tea in the other. There was a clear picture of one ice-cream van in the middle distance, a 17 plate. She looked closely, trying to recognize the young man leaning forward as he served through the hatch; his face was too blurred. She went back in time, her hand with the Maisy Daisy wrapper moving over each image slowly. When she found nothing, she moved forward again. She found it: a picture taken later in the day. The registration was not as clear as the other photograph; the camera, or phone, had been further away, and the rest of the plate was obscured by the leg of the man posing at the wedding party with his girlfriend.
Costello got out a magnifying glass that did not help much, but there was no way she could make the second digit a seven; it looked like a five. Had there been two different ice-cream vans? It took her ten minutes to find the vehicle log of the incident on the system. There was only one ice-cream van, the second one, logged as going in and out. Allison’s team were far too savvy to make a mistake like that. She checked the pictures again, looking closely. As far as she could see, the vehicle was positioned in the same place, parked in their spot on the lane at the side of the hotel. It was facing the lawn so the serving hatch was at the public side. If it reversed, even the length of itself, it would be hidden behind the side of the building. All they had to do was reverse to the car park at the front, and they’d be on the main road. At that time, the guests would be at the rear lawn, in the marquee, eating. Was there a replacement vehicle waiting to take its place, the 15 plate? Again she looked at the windscreens, the slight variance in the positioning of the Maisy Daisy logo, the 99 Flakes sticker. They were not the same van. The exchange must have happened earlier in the day. Johnny must have been seen afterwards; otherwise, it would have been in the log and investigated. Or it might have been a simple mistake. But the driver of the second vehicle had not admitted that there had been two on the site.
And Johnny was not allowed ice cream.
Or was he getting up to his old tricks? Eating ice cream. And hiding.
So who was in the van? She googled the company, the Seahorse Café; they had closed for business during the pandemic and never reopened. After another five minutes searching around for suppliers of Maisy Daisy, she found the name Robert Connaught. Who the hell was that? And where had she heard or seen that name recently? Her eyes fell on the Maisy Daisy logo. The deli at the Maltman. Her heart was thumping as she googled the owners of the Quarterhouse Deli. Joshua Wallace and Bobby Connaught. There it was. The connection: east to west, across the country.
Pauline had said to her that Bobby had a family business in St Andrews. She smacked herself on the forehead, annoyed. She knew she had heard something somewhere.
She needed to think this through.
Costello pushed the keyboard away. She needed somebody to talk to. She needed to place the events in the right chronological order. Maybe her new colleague could redeem herself, so she called Ruby’s mobile. It was switched off. She called the landline and spoke to Ruby’s boyfriend, Jeff, who immediately apologized, misunderstanding the reason for her call. He said he had used the drone for footage of the roof of ‘that place’ and he had shown it to Ruby on their laptop. He said that she had watched it over and over, and got quite excited, saying something about the toys on the roof – boys’ toys. He had got bored and gone out for a takeaway. The queue had been long and he had met somebody he knew and got chatting. When he came back, Ruby had gone and he had not seen her since. Her dinner had burned in the oven. He was a bit ratty about that. It wasn’t like her.
Costello asked if she could see the footage the drone had taken. At that point he had faltered and said that Ruby had deleted it, including the original copy. She said it would be helpful if he didn’t record anything else on the micro card in case they needed to retrieve it later.
He said he already had.
She tried Ruby’s phone again. Still turned off.
She called Wyngate who was over with the guys at the tech section trying to trace the internet provider address on the emails from the elusive Lulu, who, more than anyone, seemed to know what was going on in the Maltman building. They had narrowed the address to somewhere within the range of the Dawsons’ Wi-Fi signal, but they had no idea whose fingers were on that keyboard.
Wyngate had said on day one that the building was odd, that the residents didn’t seem to live in it all. When he arrived, she talked him through her thought process from the ice-cream van, to the Maltman, Bobby and Sven, or John as he was really called, or Murdo. But Lulu had said there was somebody up at the window, somebody she didn’t know. Ruby had now seen toys on the roof. Jeff had said boys’ toys.
‘Sven has two girls who still might play with toys.’
‘Ruby’s too intelligent to get excited by girls’ toys, and why on the roof? Their toys would be in the Green, surely.’
‘Maybe Ruby’s less gender-specific than you. Maybe Sven doesn’t like the wee kids ruining his grass.’
‘We need to get in the building. Do we need a search warrant if we think a child is in danger? I’ll phone Anderson.’
‘He won’t do anything.’
Wyngate was right.
Anderson was trying to keep the irritation from his voice. ‘I hear what you’re saying, but we can’t go in there all guns blazing, can we? I mean, where do we think Johnny is? I can’t believe we are even having this conversation.’
Costello could imagine Anderson dragging his fingers through his hair.
‘What do you want us to do, Costello? Go round and ask to see in every room because we like the décor? Get some concrete evidence, something to work with, but nothing from the drone footage.’
‘Look, boss, we know the DNA’s there. Johnny’s alive and he’s somewhere …’
It crossed Anderson’s mind what Una had said: high up and looking over water. It could mean the Maltman Green; it could mean the sewage works.
‘Have you looked into Martin’s kid? He could have left the DNA; they could be hiding in plain sight, among a family, other kids?’
‘There are wives and other kids in the Maltman Green. They’re controlled. They have driving licences but are not on the insurance. The place is as clean as a lab. The premises are big – there’s all sorts in there. And we have Lulu.’
‘No, we don’t.’
‘But we know what she knows. Imagine Louise. She’s on the outside. She’s intimidated but she has found out what’s going on and then found an ally, the new tenant in the block. Lulu was drip-feeding information to Carol – the incident with Rachel was common knowledge, then the information with the DNA came out – and maybe Lulu, whoever she is, is trying to let us know what she knows. Noises, toilet flushing at night, somebody walking around in a house that’s supposed to have super-duper insulation for heat and sound. What about up in the attic? Nobody ever goes up there, and Lulu said that’s where the face was.’
‘And she could be playing us, Costello, and pissing herself laughing. You do what your instinct tells you is right, but nothing you do has been sanctioned by me. You’re on your own. I need to go, it’s bath time. Good luck.’
Costello looked at the phone as he ended the call. ‘Arsehole.’ She tapped her mobile against her chin, then looked at Wyngate. ‘Are you doing anything tonight, Gordon?’
‘Pauline – she’s the most approachable. It’ll be interesting to see if she asks for a search warrant. She might be glad if we turn up – for all we know, she might be Lulu.’
Wyngate remained unconvinced.
‘We’ll play it by ear. Murdo and Sven, or John or whatever his bloody name is, will still be at work across the quad. Do your puppy-dog act, Wyngate. Let’s see what we can see.’ Costello knocked on the door.
‘Mrs Wallace, we are investigating a very serious crime and we think you ought to welcome the opportunity to come clean about what really goes on in this house.’
Pauline pursed her lips, slightly screwing up her face; she winced at the pain in the deep bruising around her left eye.
‘Did you walk into a door, Pauline?’ Costello asked.
‘No. How can I help you?’ she said curtly.
‘We’ve looked at the original plans of this house, and there does seem to be an entire floor upstairs that you never use. Could we see round your house? To get our bearings, you know. Get to see the Green from a higher angle?’
‘Why?’
‘New line of enquiry.’
‘Do you have a search warrant?’
‘No, but we could get one,’ said Costello. ‘It’s just that it’s dragging on a bit and we really do want our ducks in a row. Otherwise’ – she laughed slightly – ‘my boss is going to be hanging around here forever.’
‘Oh, right.’ But still Pauline Wallace didn’t move. She looked terrified.
Costello, standing on the doorstep, the sun behind her, took one step closer. ‘We know who we’re looking for, Pauline, and we’re not going to go away. Life is like that – one thing leads to another to another.’
Pauline stepped back. ‘I knew we would be found out one day. Oh my God.’ She covered her face with the palms of her hands. Wyngate thought she was going to start weeping. ‘We did our best, you know.’
‘Of course you did.’ Costello stepped inside the house. Pauline looked as if she was going to faint. Costello gave her a minute to recover. ‘Why don’t you show us?’ she said kindly.
Pauline nodded, opening the door out of the kitchen into another hall, her hands shaking, her face now drained of colour. Costello and Wyngate exchanged a glance as they moved through the original hall at the front of the house, then upstairs, past a bedroom and a room that might have been a craft room, then an office. The large sliding door opened right to left, the door behind that slid left to right, leading them into a small square hall, then another set of stairs that led to a door, the lock on it large and strong.
Pauline slid a key from a hook. ‘You might want to take a step back.’
Wyngate threw Costello a look, his eyes slightly confused. How much trouble could a boy that age be, cut off from society, kept alone in an attic, away from his friends and family. How much human development had he missed out on?
Johnny might be feral by now.
The door open, warm air drifted out, filled with the faint scent of scrambled eggs and cheesy toast. Costello felt her stomach rumble. She heard music, something she recognized from Singin’ in the Rain. It got louder as they walked along the laminated floor of a long hall, the walls decorated with paintings of flowers and landscapes, photographs of the Green: pictures of the great outside.
Pauline Wallace opened the final door, into a large room lit by the long, thin windows, eyes in the top of the building, the ones Costello had presumed were Velux windows for the loft. Lying in a big chair, covered by a blanket, his red-slippered foot tapping gently to the music in his sleep, was a very old man, his face bristly with white hair. The Great Dane lying on the rug slowly lifted his huge black head, still dozy despite the interruption.
Both Wyngate and Costello stopped in their tracks.
Wyngate recovered himself first. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘sorry to disturb you.’
The old man woke, turned his head and smiled at his guests, before telling them to fuck off.
Pauline was sitting at the kitchen table, crying her eyes out, apologizing over and over, talking to herself, while Wyngate boiled the kettle and Costello stood beside him, whispering.
‘We need to get a doctor to look at him. What’s going on here?’
‘She was keeping her dad locked in the attic, that’s what.’
‘Who does that? What reason can there be?’
‘He looks well cared for. He had the dog, his soft toys, he’s well fed.’ Wyngate looked at Costello. ‘Has there been a crime committed? Do you want me to see if there’s a social work record?’
‘Yes, and have a good look around that room upstairs – see what you can see. I’m going to talk to her.’
‘Here?’
‘Yes, here. I don’t think I need to drag her back to the station. But does it answer the questions we had? I was actually hoping that we’d find the boy; in fact, I was kind of banking on it.’
‘I think Anderson will lecture you on the perils of doing that.’
‘Oh, thanks, Wyngate – the world loves a smartarse.’
Pauline’s story was not an unfamiliar one. Her dad had a slow kind of dementia; the onset had been five years before he needed care. ‘When he was unable to live on his own, my sister decided that he should be put in a care home. She wanted to get the house closed up and sold. Dad had signed it over to our ownership, so when Mum died, any proceeds from the sale of the house would be ours.’ At that point, Pauline started to cry. The two police officers sipped their tea and waited.
‘Then my sister moved abroad. She wasn’t doing the visiting, wasn’t seeing the deterioration he went through in the home; he lost weight, his confusion was getting worse, he was becoming aggressive through lack of sleep. They couldn’t medicate him properly because by that time he could not give his consent.’
